The valley still smelled like a slaughterhouse.
Arthur watched Serena Vael carefully wrap the last lizardman tail in a cloth and tuck it into her robes. She was moving with this calm, methodical rhythm, her fingers slick with dark green blood, looking less like a nun and more like a chef prepping a very questionable five-course meal.
"The trophies must be handled personally," she said, her icy blue eyes locking onto his. "Every piece of filth removed from this world adds a drop of purity to the next."
"Right. Totally. For the cause," Arthur muttered, giving her a distracted nod.
He scanned the ground. Three bodies, zero loot. Total waste of time. He kicked a crude stone axe out of his way, the metal toe of his boot making a dull clink against the rock. "Look, Sister, the tracks head that way," he said, pointing his sword toward the deeper shadows of the cliffside. "We should move before we lose the light."
Serena stood up and dusted off her robes. The bloodstains on her crimson velvet looked like dark, blooming flowers. "Lead the way, Mr. Arthur."
They got moving again. Arthur took point, his werewolf ears working overtime—tuning out the distant bird calls and the rustle of dead grass to focus on the immediate surroundings. But mostly, he was using his nose.
The smell was getting aggressive.
It was that signature lizardman stank—reptilian musk and wet dirt—but now it was mixed with something new. A sickly sweet scent, like rotting peaches dipped in cheap perfume. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Definitely a "red flag" smell.
The trail was hard to miss. Webbed, three-toed footprints were hammered into the soft mud, alongside long drag marks from heavy tails. They followed a narrow path squeezed between rising rock walls, the sky above shrinking into a thin blue ribbon.
Suddenly, a massive wall of thorny bushes blocked the path. The branches were thick, gnarled, and covered in spikes that glowed a nasty shade of dark red in the fading light.
Serena didn't slow down, but Arthur put an arm out to stop her. "We're taking the long way around."
The nun paused, glancing at him. A few strands of her platinum hair had escaped her hood, shining like liquid silver in the gloom.
"Places like this?" Arthur whispered. "It's Ambush 101. Perfect for a tripwire or a pitfall." He paused. "Lizardmen aren't geniuses, but they know how to play dirty."
Serena scanned the thorns, gave a small nod, and let him lead.
They squeezed through a tight gap between the rock and the brush. Arthur kept his sword half-drawn, his left hand hovering over his shield strap. Serena followed a step behind, her mace held low but ready to swing.
The air was getting stifling. Massive trees began to appear, their canopies knitting together until they blocked out the sun entirely. Strangely, the temperature was rising—a humid, swampy heat that smelled of wet decay.
Serena stopped abruptly.
She pulled out that masterpiece of a map, squinting at it in the near-total darkness. Arthur saw her brow furrow as she traced the edges of the parchment.
"Mr. Arthur," she said, her voice echoing in the muggy woods. "I believe we have deviated from the path."
No kidding, Arthur thought. He shrugged, trying to keep it light. "In a place like this, it'd be weird if we didn't get lost. Don't worry, I know the way back. But we're here to finish the job, right?"
Serena looked at him. For a split second, something flickered in her eyes—not fear, but a cold, calculating assessment. Then she tucked the map away. "As you say."
Right then, Arthur's ears twitched.
Shuffling footsteps. Wet, wheezing hisses. Coming from the shadows ahead.
He raised a hand for silence, and they both melted behind the massive, twisted roots of an ancient tree. Arthur held his breath, his pupils dilating to pull in what little light remained.
A lizardman stepped out from behind a tree.
This one was a unit. It was a head taller than the ones they'd killed, with scales the color of bruised obsidian. But the real "boss" giveaway was the headband—a strip of dark brown fiber soaked in some kind of oily liquid. Painted on it in dark red were twisted symbols: overlapping circles, jagged waves, and sharp triangles.
Arthur felt Serena's breath hitch beside him.
He looked over. The nun was staring at that headband with her pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Her grip on her mace was so tight her knuckles were white. It wasn't fear—it was that "holy rage" look again. The "I'm about to commit a hate crime for God" look.
The lizard didn't see them. It flicked its long, forked tongue into the air, sensing for heat, then lumbered off toward the deepest shadows—the direction where the sweet, rotting smell was strongest.
Serena looked at Arthur and mouthed one word: Follow.
Arthur nodded.
Tailing the thing was easier than expected. The lizard was slow, stopping every few feet to let its heat-sensing pits do the work. Arthur and Serena moved like ghosts through the shadows, staying exactly ten paces back.
The smell was becoming a literal physical weight. Lizard musk, rotting sweetness, and now… the metallic tang of blood. Fresh blood.
They pushed through one last thicket of ferns, and the woods opened up.
Arthur stopped, squinting through the leaves.
It was a clearing backed up against a sheer cliff face. Several bonfires were burning in the center, but the flames were a weird, sickly neon green. They hissed and popped, sending up thick plumes of that sweet-smelling smoke.
And around those fires? A whole lot of trouble.
Thirty? Forty? Arthur did a quick head count and felt his heart sink. This wasn't a skirmish; it was a raid. Most of the lizardmen were crouching silently, facing the center of the clearing at… the thing.
It was a "statue" about twelve feet tall, crudely hacked together from mud, rocks, broken branches, and animal bones. It looked like it was trying to be a creature with too many heads and legs—a jagged, unsettling pile of wrongness. Its surface was smeared with red and black pigments, mirroring the symbols on the lizard's headband. Real, rotting lizardman heads were impaled on the "head" sections, their empty sockets staring at the sky. At the base were piles of fresh, meaty bones. And then there was the flag—a banner made of fresh hide, painted with a massive blood-red symbol.
A pagan idol. A big, nasty one.
Arthur felt his stomach do a slow flip. It wasn't the blood—it was the sheer, mindless savagery of it. This thing felt evil.
He scanned the crowd. Most were the standard olive-drab lizards with stone axes. But there were a few elites—three massive, black-scaled guards with obsidian-studded clubs standing near the idol. And right in front of the statue was an old, shriveled lizardman with pale gray scales. It was throwing handfuls of powder into the green fires, chanting in a raspy, hissing tone. A shaman.
Serena was coiled beside him like a spring. Arthur could feel the cold, sharp intensity radiating off her.
"Mr. Arthur," she whispered. The green firelight reflected in her eyes, making them look like glowing gems. "Do you see it? The 'Impurity' made flesh."
"I see it," Arthur whispered back, licking his dry lips. "I also see forty lizardmen, three elites, and a shaman. Charging in there is a suicide mission."
He tried to engage his brain. "The goal is to destroy that pile of junk and grab the flag, right?"
"The idol must burn. The relic must be taken," Serena said, her voice like forged steel.
"Listen, thirty-plus to two are bad odds," Arthur said, shaking his head. "I say we pull a 'stealth and grab.' We cause a distraction, I snag the flag, and we haul ass. Then we report back to the Guild and let a high-level team clear this place out."
It was the smart play. Minimum risk, same result.
Serena went quiet.
The green firelight flickered in her eyes. She stared at the idol, at the lizardmen, then back at Arthur. She gave him a tiny, faint smile. There was no warmth in it—just a terrifying, martyr-like resolve.
"To flee is to allow this rot to grow," she said softly. "The fire must be lit now."
She paused, her eyes searching his. "I will provide the opening. I will set that blasphemy ablaze. Mr. Arthur, I need you to buy me time and secure the banner." She leaned in, her voice raspy. "Are you… afraid?"
Arthur's heart skipped. He looked away, back at the clearing. Was he scared? Hell yeah. But he was more scared of losing that silver coin and going back to being a Tier 2 nobody.
"Fine," he hissed through his teeth. "You light the fire, I grab the flag. But no heroics. We get in and we get out."
Serena nodded, her smile widening just a fraction. She began to chant—low, ancient sounds that had a rhythmic power to them. Her fingers traced the handle of her mace, and the head of the weapon began to glow with a faint, angry orange light.
Arthur took a breath and gripped his sword. He felt the faint hum of his Paladin-lite magic stirring in his veins, ready to pop a shield. His werewolf blood was running hot, his muscles twitching with pre-combat adrenaline.
In the clearing, the shaman threw one last handful of powder. The green flames roared up, and every lizardman let out a synchronized, low-frequency hiss.
That was the signal.
Serena moved.
She burst from the shadows like a crimson arrow, straight for the nearest green bonfire. Her mace was trailing behind her, glowing like molten lava.
"Goddammit," Arthur cursed, and lunged after her, his eyes locked on the blood-red banner.
Forty pairs of yellow eyes turned toward them at once.
The hissing turned into a scream.
The hunt was on.